I fell face first into urine stained subway steps yesterday. I was wearing clown shoes. Allow me to defend myself.
I bought Size 8 Converse shoes before I left the states. Want to feel fashion forward in Paris? Wear mom jeans four inches too short and Converse or Adidas tennis shoes. Wish I could find my box of 1980s clothing.
No wonder. It is my earnest belief that these are Men’s Size 8s (these are my actual shoes–unretouched):
We went to Parler Parlor last night, a language exchange forum–Participants are there to hone either their English or French.
The first 45 minutes our group of six spoke in French. The Husband and I were the weak links in the conversation flow. I had to use my hands a lot, not unlike Hellen Keller. If the other four people were in graduate school, we were in high school.
In the next 45 minutes the dialogue switched to English and The Husband and I led the group in a colorful discourse about politics and history–I even held stride with a Canadian PhD who’d written and published a book about French history. We had flipped our imaginary tassels. Graduate school, here we come!
It wasn’t until we got up to leave I remembered I was wearing clown shoes. There was laughter from the French participants on the way out, ostensibly about something funny.
My knowledge of history and politics are no match for my clown shoes. I removed my imaginary tam and tassel. But I still have to walk home in these damn shoes.